Dark Channel

by Ray Garton

  Jordan began waving his arms and silently mouthing, No, no, no. He made a cutting motion across his throat with a finger and shook his head frantically.

  “Uh … could you hold on just a moment, Mr. Tomkey? Thanks.” Marvin pressed a palm over the mouthpiece and whispered, “What in the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Don’t tell him anything yet,” Jordan said.

  “Why?”

  “Well … I got to thinking on my way here … think about it, Marvin, who’s the old guy hurting? Not his wife. She can’t get out of bed, what’s she gonna do with the money? He’s not even using that much. I mean, what’s a few beers, some coffee and a little fun at the track, huh? It makes him so happy. And he doesn’t have long to go, either, but at least he’s healthy enough to enjoy it. And besides, they’re married, for crying out loud, so isn’t this money his just as much as hers? What’s the crime here? I figured … well, I was just thinking that… oh, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Marvin stared at him a moment, then said softly, “Jordy, it’s not my job to decide what is or isn’t best for my clients. My job’s just to do whatever they ask me to do.”

  “Yeah,” Jordan said with a shrug, “yeah, I know. I was, um, out of line, I guess.”

  Marvin thought for a long moment before taking his hand from the mouthpiece. “Mr. Tomkey? Sorry about that. Uh, as I was saying …” He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “… uh, one of my operatives just returned from observing Mr. Carmichael’s activities. As you know, I’ve been on this for a while now, and …” He glanced up at Jordan. “I have to tell you I think Mrs. Carmichael is wasting her money. I’m not turning up a single thing.”

  Jordan leaned his back against the wall and smiled. It wasn’t long after that he decided to say goodbye to the real-estate business. Before his hands got too shaky.

  Marvin read the People article about Hester Thorne, grunting occasionally, shaking his head, as Jordan sat silently behind the desk.

  The desk, as well as the office, used to be Marvin’s when he started Ackroyd investigations. After Jordan had worked under him for three years—the amount of time required before he could obtain his license as a private investigator—Jordan took over.

  Marvin now owned Ackroyd Security and Surveillance, the mail order business once owned by Jim Rale. “Such toys,” he often said to his clients with a whimsical smile.

  Jordan waited patiently. They had always discussed each case before taking on a client in the past; they still did, even though they worked in separate businesses.

  “So,” Marvin said, closing the magazine. “What’s the deal?”

  “Hell if I know. He wants me to bring the magazine when I have lunch with him tomorrow.”

  “Edmond Fiske. Son of a bitch. Where you going?”

  “Stars.”

  “I take it you’re buying.”

  “Smartass. Any ideas?”

  “Yeah. A good one. Listen to him closely. Nod your head a lot and look very professional. And order the most expensive thing on the menu. He can afford it.”

  4.

  Lauren punched in the plant’s number three times before her trembling fingers hit all the right buttons, then she waited through the rings, each of which seemed to last an eternity.

  She’d decided to call on the bedroom phone so Nathan wouldn’t see how upset she was. She could hear him downstairs, talking to the raccoons outside the window.

  “Diego Nuc—”

  “Betty?”

  “No, this is Jan. Betty no longer works here. Can I help you?”

  “Oh, thank god,” Lauren sighed, thinking, Betty quit, that’s all, of course, Mark said she was quitting weeks and weeks ago, that’s what Nathan heard, that’s all, a misunderstanding. “Could I speak to Mark Schroeder, please? This is his wife calling.”

  “Uuhh, I’m very sorry, Mrs. Schroeder, but… well, surely you … surely you know your husband doesn’t work here anymore, either.”

  Silence.

  “Maybe … maybe I should transfer you to Mr.—”

  “Wait, just wait a second.” Lauren clawed her right temple with her nails, closing her eyes tightly. “This … can’t… be.

  I mean, it just can’t. My husband left for work this morning, he leaves for work every morning, he’s—”

  “Let me transfer you to Mr.—”

  “You transfer me to my goddamned husband, Jan, transfer me right now!”

  There was an icy pause, then: “Please hold.”

  Lauren’s hands began to quake as she waited and her lower lip was hurting because she was chewing it.

  Suddenly: “Lauren?” It was a man, but not Mark.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Travis Bissel. ’Member me?”

  All she could remember was a beer belly being carried around on pencil legs at the last plant function she’d attended with Mark.

  “Yes, yes,” she said quietly, impatiently, striving for control, “of course I do, Travis, but I really need to talk to Mark right now, really.”

  He chuckled and said, “Is he supposed to be here today? He said he might drop by to—”

  “Where is my husband?” she shouted, pounding a fist on the bed, then immediately said, “I’m sorry, Travis, really, I am, but that woman I talked to just said, she said—” She coughed up a sob, surprising herself, “—she said that Mark doesn’t work there anymore. That … that’s not true, is it? He left for work this morning, so please, Travis, please tell me that isn’t true.”

  “Oh. Oh, boy, Lauren, you mean … you mean you don’t know yet?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Well, God, Lauren, I can’t believe he didn’t—why wouldn’t he—you mean he didn’t tell you?”

  Her voice was hoarse when she whispered, “Was he … fired, Travis? Laid off? Are th-they … closing the plant down again?”

  “No. He quit.”

  The plastic crackled in her hands as she twisted the receiver.

  “Three weeks ago,” Travis went on, “maybe a little more. He let us know way in advance.”

  “Whuh-why … would he … quit?”

  “He said you were moving. Up north somewhere. Near Mount Shasta?”

  Ice water coursed through her and her mouth became dry. “Mo … moving,” she muttered.

  “You are, aren’t you? Moving, I mean?”

  “Oh, God,” Lauren breathed, covering her eyes with a clammy palm. “Oh, my god, what’s happening?”

  “Laur-uh, Mrs. Schroeder? You all right?” Travis’s voice was suddenly somber and respectful.

  “No, Travis, no, I’m … I’m not all … all right.”

  Lauren hung up gently, her knuckles white as she held onto the receiver and stared at the telephone until a tremor rolled through her body, so powerful that she hugged herself to stop it but couldn’t and she tipped over on the bed, shaking and sobbing, until the tremor passed.

  What has he been doing? she thought, staring at the ceiling. Where has he been going every day? And why would he say we were moving? Up there? To that place? With that woman? That awful woman …

  After a few slow deep breaths, Lauren struggled to sit up and called Glenda Carey, her best friend and Nathan’s baby-sitter.

  “What’s wrong?” Glenda asked immediately after hearing Lauren’s voice. Her three sons played loudly in the background.

  “We have to talk, Glenda, right now, we have to get together and talk, please.”

  “Calm down, sweetie. What’s wrong?”

  “Can I see you?”

  “Well, I was just taking the boys out for lunch. You want to meet us?”

  “Where?”

  “Chuck E. Cheese.”

  Lauren laughed; it was a giggle at first, then became a genuine belly laugh that hit so hard it scared h
er.

  “Lauren, what’s the matter with you?”

  Between her laughs, Lauren said to herself, shaking her head, “Fuck … the money. Fuck … him and his … money. Fuck him.” She fought to kill the laughter, then said, “I’ll see you there in about an hour,” and hung up to wipe away her tears.

  She washed her face and brushed her hair before going back downstairs to Nathan.

  He was kneeling at the coffee table thumbing through a book.

  “I’ve got a surprise, Nathe,” she said with forced cheer.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to—” She saw the book he was reading and the others stacked beneath it. “Where did you get those?” she asked, no longer cheerful.

  “They were right here.”

  Lauren’s teeth crunched in her skull as she ground them together, moving forward quickly and plucking the book away from Nathan.

  “But-but, Mom, it’s just the magic crystal book, that’s all, it’s not—”

  “I’ve told you not to read them, I’ve told you! Haven’t I?” She pulled at the hardcover book until the dust jacket peeled off and slapped to the coffee table with that woman’s face smiling up at Lauren from the torn cover, then she began ripping the pages out, clumps of them at a time, wadding them in her fist and tossing them aside, growling, “And I’ve told him, that son of a bitch, I’ve told him not to leave this trash, this shit, lying around the house, damn him!” When all the pages were scattered over the floor and the strip of glue on the spine flapped uselessly from the front cover, Lauren lifted it high with both hands and slammed it down hard on her knee, cracking it in half. She bent down to grab the next one, planning to do the same to each of them, books about crystals and channeling and the all-knowing entity that spoke through that awful woman, that crazy bitch, that money-hungry monster, but then—

  —she saw Nathan.

  He was huddled on the floor, his back against the sofa, hands locked over his chest, eyes so big and scared, lips quivering.

  Lauren forgot the books instantly and dropped to her knees, taking Nathan in her arms and whispering, “I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry, really. It’s not you. You didn’t do anything. I’m just … just a little upset, that’s all.”

  “Are you and Daddy gonna fight?”

  She cried against his small shoulder. “Probably, honey.”

  “But … you promised. You crossed your heart.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, because I didn’t know.”

  His tense body relaxed in her arms.

  She wiped her tears, then leaned back and smiled at him. “How would you like to go meet Glenda and the boys at Chuck E. Cheese?”

  “Can we?” he gasped, eyes brightening.

  “You bet. Let’s go.”

  She had to stop at the bank for some money first and left the car running while she hurried to the automatic teller. She slipped her card into the slot, punched in her code, and waited for the screen to clear so she could hit the proper buttons to make a withdrawal.

  But it didn’t clear.

  The small screen blinked, then flashed five glowing amber words:

  ACCOUNT CLOSED

  PLEASE REMOVE CARD

  Her card slid out of the slot and the machine beeped as it waited for her to do as she was told. Lauren stared at the screen.

  Her face was reflected in the screen and a few strands of her blond hair were blown over her eyes by a soft breeze.

  She removed the card, slipped it back in, and punched in her code number.

  The same thing happened. But her card did not come back out.

  “No,” she whispered, punching buttons frantically, then said it again—“No no no no”—as she slammed the bank door open and hurried to the closest free teller. She slapped her palm on the counter and said firmly, “There’s something wrong with the machine. It says the account is closed, and it wouldn’t give my card back.”

  The woman—a petite Asian smartly dressed in red and black-smiled condescendingly as she said, “Well, we’ll just see about that, won’t we? Your account number?”

  Lauren gave her the number impatiently.

  “One moment.” She disappeared behind a divider beyond the window and returned seconds later. “I’m sorry, but this account has been closed. Would you like to open a new one?”

  Lauren gaped at her. “That … can’t … be. What about savings? We have a savings account here, we’ve got—”

  “Your name is Schroeder?”

  Lauren nodded, jaw slack.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Schroeder, but you no longer have an account here. If you’d like, I can—”

  Lauren spun around and jogged out of the bank, crying before she reached the door, and when she got in the car, she pounded both fists on the steering wheel, sobbing. When she finally calmed, Nathan spoke in a whisper. “Whasmatter, Mom?”

  She tried to respond, but words would not form in her mouth. She backed the car out of the parking slot and her tires squealed as she sped away from the bank, heading for Chuck E. Cheese.

  The cocaine had been bad enough.

  Aside from the fact that it shook them as a family, Mark’s abuse of the drug had endangered the plant, and for a while, once word got out, they held their breath waiting to see if he would lose his job. Fortunately, everyone at the plant was understanding; not only was Mark able to keep his job, he was offered as much time off as he would need to get himself straightened out.

  So he took two weeks off and saw Dr. Helen Burbage in San Jose five days a week. Lauren attended half the sessions with him at Dr. Burbage’s request. She was a soft-spoken woman in her late forties, tall and rather thick, but strangely graceful. She told them that later she would want to see Nathan, but for the moment she would work with them, specifically with Mark.

  Dr. Burbage instilled in Lauren a calm she had not felt in many months and as they neared the end of their work with her, Lauren was confident that things were different for good, that they would go on and not look back.

  Then, a few months after they finished seeing the doctor, Lauren and Mark attended the plant’s Christmas party, and her confidence was stolen from her.

  They mingled at the party, but stayed close together and touched one another often, drinking only mineral water because they were afraid to even sip anything stronger. Lauren was talking to one of the wives about Christmas dinner plans when a small balding man with thick glasses approached Mark. His name was Arnold Grossman; he worked in public relations and bore a striking resemblance to the late Wally Cox. He timidly proffered a colorfully wrapped gift the size of a paperback book and said, “This is for you, Mark.”

  “Oh. Well. I didn’t think we were exchanging presents. If I’d known, I would’ve—”

  “No, no, it’s not like that. We weren’t supposed to bring gifts, but I want you to have this. Really. Take it.” Mark took it.

  “Open it later. At home. And when you open it, please, watch it.”

  “Watch it?”

  “It’s a videotape. And you may be skeptical at first. But please, as a favor to me—and to yourself—please watch it.”

  “Sure, Arnold, okay. I will. And thank you.”

  “I know exactly what you’re going through. I went through it, too, and … well, maybe this will help you as much as it did me.”

  When they got home, Lauren was tired and went straight upstairs to change her clothes. When she realized Mark had not followed her, she went back downstairs to find him kneeling in front of the television watching an attractive blond woman standing on a stage; the woman wore what appeared to be a pair of white silk pajamas with dolman sleeves and large stones glittered on her fingers and around her neck. She held a microphone and moved energetically from one end of the stage to the other.

  “I know that none of this will so
und right to most of you,” the woman was saying, “and you’re probably going to be skeptical at first, but that’s okay. The fact that you’re here is a good sign. It means you’re searching for something your life is lacking right now, something to fill that empty spot. And I am going to give it to you.”

  “Mark?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Mark?”

  The woman went on: “Most of you here tonight were probably raised in a Christian home. Or perhaps a Jewish home. You might be Buddhist or Hindu or atheist or Seventh-day Adventist or Scientologist or any one of a thousand different beliefs, but whatever you are, I guarantee you that what I’m about to share with you is going to sound completely … entirely … absolutely … wrong. And I guarantee you something else. It’s not. And if you don’t agree with me when you leave here tonight, go home and think about it awhile, and you’ll change your mind.”

  “Are you coming to bed, Mark?”

  His head jerked around and he blurted, “Huh?”

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  “Uh … yeah, sure, yeah, just a—I want to—yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” He turned back to the television again.

  Lauren stood at the foot of the stairs, watching the woman on the screen.

  “What I’m going to share with you tonight,” she continued, “is a truth that has been kept from you until now. The truth. And it will go against everything you’ve been taught, no matter what religion or faith you come from, because, quite frankly, everything you’ve been taught is wrong, and if that offends you, I’m sorry. It’s the truth.”

  “One of those,” Lauren murmured as she went to the kitchen for a glass of milk, then back through the living room, headed for bed.

  The woman was still talking, louder now, more animated.

  “—supreme arrogance in teaching you that Jesus Christ was god’s one and only son. Yes, I know, the bible says that god gave his ‘only begotten son,’ but tonight, we’re going to look at that—and many other things—from a completely different angle, and I promise that you will see the lie—and that’s exactly what it is, sweet souls, a lie—that has been passed down from generation to generation to generation and will continue to be promulgated from now until this planet’s final dying gasp unless we stop it, and learning how to stop it is the truth that can finally fill that emptiness in your life.”